Untitled so far
by LightningEagan
Summary: A young woman is tossed out onto the streets after a tragedy, is taken in by the Brooklyn newsies, and deals with her issues. Pretty typical, but I hope it's good.
1. Introduction

_Disclaimer: I own Elle, and all Brooklyn newsies other than Spot. Everything else is Disney's._

Also note: I've gotten comments on how short the "first chapter is". This is not the first chapter! I wouldn't make something that short for a chapter. My limit is at least 3 Microsoft Word pages long. No, this is just the introduction, meant to be a mood-setter for the story. So don't worry! Thank you…

**Introduction**

_October 12, 1990_

It was a rather cold evening in Brooklyn, New York. The sun had just begun to consider turning in for the night, and already temperatures were far below comfortable. Night was not welcoming to the street-dwellers, or to those who had no place else to go.

One of these unfortunate souls, a young woman by the name of Isabelle Lauren Hart, was oblivious to the chill around her. She walked slowly down the street, aimlessly wandering. She owned nothing but the clothes on her back and a small silver cross, which she clutched in her right hand. Isabelle wasn't quite sure how far she'd come or how long she'd been walking, but one with no destination doesn't measure the steps they take to get there.

She came to a roughly paved road, running alongside the East River. After following it for some time, a few docks came into view, and she headed onto the first one to rest. She walked a ways down, then sat, hanging her legs over the edge, and leaning her head against a wooden post. Staring off into the water, with nothing to see but the stars' reflections, and nothing to hear but the river flowing and a few stray alley cats in a fight over a rat… she had never felt so alone.


	2. Taken In

_((Hey, another note: My computer is overly protective, and blocks out random words like gi.rl, blo.nde, cheer.leader, and any other words that a not-so-wholesome person would look up on... certain websites. I don't think it allows swearing either. So any word that won't show up, I have to put a period in the middle of. I'll try to fix it when I can, at other peoples' houses or the library. I'm sorry, and thank you for bearing with me!))_

**Taken In**

Seventeen-year old Spot Conlon kicked a small rock down the street as he trudged toward the water. The day had been especially trying, and he was looking forward to the time alone more than ever. His nights at the dock were his solace from the stressful demands of leadership, and the impending winter had him in poor spirits.

He found his usual spot, high up on a wooden post, where he could see what went on around him. After a few minutes, a figure caught his eye. He could barely make it out, so he climbed down, making as little noise as possible, although they apparently weren't paying attention anyways, as they hadn't heard him when he first came. Spot quietly moved closer, and when he figured he had gone far enough, he made himself comfortable on a crate.

The figure could now be identified as a young woman. He couldn't make out the details of her face, but he could tell she had slightly curly hair, midway down her back, and a slight shimmer on her cheeks told him she'd been crying.

In his gut, Spot felt the need to talk to her, to know her story. He stood up and walked along the dock toward her. Not wanting to scare her, he wasn't quite sure how to approach. He slowly moved into a sitting position a couple of feet away and looked at her, but didn't say a word. She turned her face to meet his gaze, and as the moon lit her features, his heart skipped a couple beats. Her gentle, yet striking beauty hit him like a pile of bricks. Gorgeous bricks.

She had big, clear blue eyes, framed by long, thick eyelashes and delicate eyebrows, and her hair looked as smooth as silk. Her full lips quivered as she held back her tears in front of this stranger. She wore a long, pale green dress, with short sleeves and a slightly tattered hem. An off-white crocheted shawl covered her shoulders, but did an inadequate job of warming her arms. The night air had chilled her, and she shivered slightly. Her dusty black boots were loosely tied, as if she had been rushed while lacing them.

Somehow, Spot found his voice, and almost whispered, "Ya got a name?"

The girl hesitated, took a deep, shuddery breath, and then said, "Isabelle."

Spot held out his hand. "Spot Conlon."

Isabelle cocked her head to the side as she wiped her glistening cheeks with her sleeve. "Spot Conlon as in… newsie leader, Spot Conlon?" she asked, then offered her hand.

He smirked, nodded, and noted how ice-like her hand felt as he shook it. "So, uh… what are you'se doin' out heah?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Well, do ya got somewheres to stay?"

Isabelle looked at him for what seemed like an hour, but was only a few seconds. Another tear took the place of the ones wiped only moments earlier from her cheek. "No," she whispered.

He smiled. "That, I can help ya with. Wanna try yer hand at headline-hawkin'?"

She took another shuddery breath. "Well, as it's either that or stay out here… I'd love to."

Spot stood up, and after helping her to do so also, he led her back to the lodging house.

**· · · · · · · ·**

_At the lodging house_

Spot pushed the door open, and, almost as an afterthought, turned around and held it open for Isabelle. A few guys were lounging around the front room, and a couple sat on the steps leading upstairs, deep in conversation. Mr. McKenzie, the rather chubby, elderly owner, was behind the front desk, smoking his pipe and reading from a thick book.

All except the owner, deeply engrossed in his novel, looked up as Spot entered with the newcomer. He told Isabelle to sit down in a chair near the door, then walked over to the desk, and cleared his throat to get McKenzie's attention. The old man looked up and took in the familiar face, then glanced quizzically over at the new one.

"Hey, uh… McKenzie, is there any way we'se could, ya know, talk privately fer a minute?"

The man nodded, and the two went into the room behind the desk and closed the door.

"Could she stay here?" Spot immediately asked.

"Who, the gi.rl?" He asked.

"Well a' course da goil. I didn' say 'she' 'bout no guy."

McKenzie sat back in his chair, let out a long breath, and thought about it for a minute. After a time, he shrugged. "Honestly, I don't see why not. Gi.rls can sell papers as well as boys can, I'm sure. Maybe better, seeing as they tend to be sweeter. And better looking." He smiled at the young man. "We don't have no extra rooms though. She'll have to be all right with staying with you boys. And I don't want to be hearing about any bad behavior. I know she's a looker, but I won't tolerate it."

Spot nodded enthusiastically. "Thanks," he said.

He returned to Isabelle and bent down in front of her. "McKenzie says it's all right, but we ain't got no extra rooms. You gotta stay in wid' us guys. But don' worry! We'se may be tough, but we ain't rude. An' you'se can change in 'da bathroom."

She nodded. "Yeah, I can do that."

"Well let's go then," he said. "I'll show ya 'round."

_((A BIG thank you to Gamble and Melissa for reviews!))_


	3. The First Night

**The First Night**

Isabelle followed Spot around the lodging house, meeting different boys in every room. She wasn't sure if she'd ever remember all their names.

"…An' dis is 'da kitchen. There's never really much of anythin' in heah, or anyone, but it's an extra sink 'n… yeah, I don' really know why we'se got it…"

As he led her down hallways and up stairs, through doors and out them again, she tried to make a mental map of the place. It wasn't huge, but it did house about sixty full-grown boys. There were many doors, most of which opened into closets or cupboards, and she was not about to open each one to find the room she wanted.

She kept listening intently, but turned her thoughts toward her guide. She had heard about Spot Conlon, but who in Brooklyn hadn't? She'd overheard that he was arrogant, cold, and dangerous, but he didn't seem like any of that in person. He had an air of confidence, but not conceit. He had come to her and taken her in, so how could he be cold? He looked strong, tough, and she didn't think she'd want to pick a fight with him, but while he may be intimidating to his enemies, she didn't think he was necessarily dangerous.

She studied him a bit harder. He looked a couple inches under six feet tall, to her, and muscular. He wasn't brawny, but slender, and his body showed the effects of basic nourishment, hard work, and a strenuous lifestyle. His brown hair was clean, not a common sight among newsboys, and his lips were perfect. Curled into a smirk, a grin, a laugh, a frown, or pairing up with a glare, they were absolutely perfect. _"Oh, and those eyes…"_ Isabelle thought, as "those eyes" met hers. They were gray-green seas that one could get lost in within moments. Piercing and soft, laughing yet sad, and simply beautiful.

She shifted her thoughts back to the tour. They had gone through the main lobby, the "meeting room" (an empty room that was used for storage and privacy), up the stairs to the bunkroom, the washroom, and all the various closets and such. Then they went up another flight of stairs to the rather sparse-looking third floor, which had only a table, a few stools, a lamp, and a desk.

She had met what felt like hundreds of boys, although none of their names came back to her immediately, and most of them had expressed amusement or disbelief at the idea of a news_girl_. At the moment, Spot, who had been called down to the lobby and just returned, was opening various closets and cupboards, trying to find the dry rags. He was grumbling something about spilled milk and a boy named "Sparks."

Opening the nearest door, Isabelle happened to find a stack of neatly folded strips of cloth. She grabbed one and handed it to Spot, and as he dashed down the stairs, she wandered back to where she remembered the bunkroom being.

When she and Spot had stopped in a few minutes earlier, they had decided on a bunk for her. It was next to his, so he could "keep an eye on her," as he put it. Both were bottom bunks. He liked being able to come and go without anyone noticing, and she was afraid of falling off. Spot had actually had one of the boys, Knuckles, move to a different bunk for her.

She welcomed the sight of the bed and, despite the chatter and activity around her, she promptly fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

· · · · · · · ·

After Spot cleaned up the mess in the lobby, he too headed up to the bunkroom. He had intended to tell Isabelle of the regular schedule, so she at least had some idea of what was going on. However, when he found her, she was already asleep.

He looked at her, noting that she had nothing other than what she was wearing. There was no way she was going to roam around New York selling newspapers in a dress. He guessed her to be about the size of Skipper, a fourteen-year-old boy with a knack for skipping rocks. The boy was rather willing to give up an extra shirt and pair of pants for the "new gi.rl". Spot folded them, along with one of his own undershirts and some suspenders, and placed them on the small table between their beds. Then he went to join the pok.er game on the other side of the room, thinking about Brooklyn's new beauty all the way over there.

· · · · · · · ·

_The next day_

Spot was a few minutes before the sunrise, and was surprised to see Isabelle's bed already empty, and the clothes on the table already replaced by the dress. He looked around the room for her, but didn't see her anywhere. Assuming she had to be somewhere, he went to the washroom, splashed some water on his face, pulled his shirt and pants on, tied his shoes, and headed up to the roof for a few minutes of solitude before the rest of the boys woke up.

When he reached the top of the fire escape, he found his idea was less original than he had thought. Isabelle was already up there, sitting on the edge and staring at the horizon, as the sun took its first steps into the day. As he walked nearer to her, he realized she had something in her hands that she was playing with.

"Mornin'," he said, climbing up to sit alongside her.

She turned and smiled a bit. "Good morning. You're an early riser, too, huh?"

He nodded, noting how melodic her voice sounded. "How'd ya sleep?"

She shrugged. "Well enough…"

Spot noticed that she had left the answer hanging a bit, as if there was more to it, but ignored it. "So, Isabelle… Got a nickname, or is it jus' Isabelle?"

"Well, I guess you can call me whatever you want," she said with a smile. "I'll answer to it, so long as you let me know it's my name."

"Fair enough," Spot replied. "How old're you?"

"I turn seventeen in a couple months. You?"

"Turnin' eighteen."

She nodded, and they fell into silence and watched the sun climb up the edge of the sky until it was fully visible. After a time, voices drifted up from the window, getting louder and louder.

"We'd betta' go," Spot admitted reluctantly.

Isabelle took one last glance at the sky, then turned around and walked over to the fire escape, following Spot down and into the window.

They were met with a few odd looks, but for the most part, they came in unnoticed. The bunkroom was a madhouse, with half-dressed boys everywhere, and many loud conversations fighting to be heard. Spot made sure everyone was up, and that the smallest boys were getting ready. Then he grabbed his cane and slingshot from beside his bed, and motioned for Isabelle to follow him out the door.

_((Thank you's go to elleestJenn, PeliculaJane, Gamble, and Lilyanatos for reviews! Thanks guys!))_


	4. The Bridge

_((By the way, I'm sorry this chapter took nearly forever to finish. I got writer's block a trillion times on this one; it was BAD. Thanks for the patience!))_

**The Bridge**

"So, what's yer story?" Spot asked Isabelle, to fill the empty, awkward silence. They had been walking for a good ten minutes, and neither of them had said a word, up until now.

Isabelle shrugged, then was silent for a moment. "I went for a walk last night. I came back, an-" She stopped de.ad in her tracks, and Spot turned to her. She was staring down the street. He followed her gaze, which was resting on charred frame of a tenement building on the corner.

When he realized what was going on, he looked back at her.

She closed her eyes tightly. They had begun to water, and she was not willing to let that happen. _"I can't," _she thought. _"Not in front of him. Not again." _ She felt his hand touch her shoulder, and tensed. _"I refuse."_

Bringing her hands to her face, she quickly dried her eyes, turning herself around. "Come on. Is there any other way to get there?"

"Yeah," Spot said. "Turn left up there." He tended to be an inflictor of pain, not a consoler. This gi.rl, however, had a beauty he couldn't stand to see marred by tears and heartache. She had a way of exaggerating emotions. It was unintentional, since she very obviously tried to hide them, but it was clear. Like a flower in the middle of a downpour, she made the idea of unhappiness look pitiful; beautiful, but miserable.

Isabelle marched off, in the opposite direction of her former home. Not sure what else to do, Spot followed. With his directions, they got to the distribution center in about fifteen minutes, and stepped up to the window in the front of the line.

"A leadah's advantage," he explained to her in a whisper. Then he turned his attention to the bookkeeper and shoved three quarters under the window. "Hundred n' fifty."

As the papers were counted, Isabelle gaped at Spot. "Isn't… isn't that a lot?"

He hoisted the papers onto his shoulder and smirked at her. "Goil… wid' yer looks… we'll be sellin' even mo' tomorra'!"

She blushed and followed him down the steps and out into the streets.

· · · · · · · ·

_Two hours later_

"My god, goil. You'se definitely good fer business!" Spot exclaimed after he sold their last paper to an elderly gentleman. "A hundred n' fifty papes 's neah'ly unhoid of fer a day, much less 'n hour!" A large group of school-going teenage boys had come by in the morning, and each one had insisted on buying a paper from the beautiful gi.rl, severely reducing their load.

Isabelle smiled. "So what do we do now?"

"We get 'da rest a' 'da day off!" He made a quick decision and started walking in the direction of the river.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as she quickly caught up with him.

"Ya's gonna meet Jacky-boy."

Isabelle looked at him quizzically.

"Well, all 'da Manhattan boys, really. We'll get theah' jus' in time fer lunch, if we take a coupl'a detours along 'da way. Cowboy's –'dat is, Jack- 'e's 'da leada'," he explained.

She thought about this as they continued walking. She'd never been on the Brooklyn Bridge, much less over it. A quiet excitement started building in her, and slowly grew until she could barely contain herself. New situations, places, and people were things that she loved, and she couldn't stop wondering about it.

· · · · · · ·

Looking out at the East River from such an overwhelming height, Isabelle was sure she had never seen anything so magnificent. Spot smiled to himself, proud of what he thought of as his city. Her amazement was childlike, sincere, and obvious. They had had to stop a few times already, so she could look over the side, or comment on how tiny everything looked down below.

"Ya do realize we won't get 'deah fer a good two days if you'se keep gawkin' at 'dis bridge…" Spot said playfully, gently pulling her along by the arm.

She blushed. "Sorry… it's just… well, huge!"

He shook his head. "Don't be sorry. I guess it is amazin', when ya think about it. I don't no moh'—think about it, 'dat is."

"I could stay here all day."

"Well maybe someday we will, 'den."

She smiled at him and they continued on to Manhattan.

_((Thanks to elleestJenn, Gamble, and Margie Driscoll for reviews!))_


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